Bride Of Kildare
by rhinosgirl
Summary: After the death of his wife and daughter, Patrick Jane flees to London. Through a mutual friend, he is invited to work with Sherlock Holmes to investigate a double murder with ties to medieval Ireland. A gift-fic for NeoMiniTails in the 2014 Spring Gift Exchange. I hope you enjoy it!
1. The Jacket

"Why are you wearing that?" Greg Lestrade, looking dapper in a black three-piece dinner suit, remonstrated cantankerously. He and his annoying little brother were engaged in yet another standoff. This time they were in the living-room of the semi-detached home of their mutual friend Sherlock Holmes, which also happened to be where the younger Lestrade had decided - before he even left New York City - to stay during his time in London. This was despite the fact that his brother had a fully furnished apartment within the distance of a cheap taxicab ride from their current location that was plenty large enough for both of them. Add to that the fact that the siblings hadn't seen each other in the nearly two years since "Travers" had become "Travis" and gone to live in the United States of America –perish the thought! – and Greg had arrived to pick up his brother in an extremely acrimonious state of mind.

"What?" Travis Lestrade, looking uncomfortably handsome in navy blue dress pants and white shirt, grumbled defensively while fiddling in the mirror with his little-worn black tie, his one and only nod to his English upbringing and it's, to his eyes, outdated customs.

"_That_," Greg said scornfully, indicating the offending article.

"It's a jacket." Travis finally succeeded in tying a passable imitation of a Windsor knot, and moved to pass his brother and go out the door.

"It's green!" Greg pointed out, reaching to restrain his smart-alec brother.

"Yep," said Travis flippantly, adroitly avoiding his know-it-all brother's grasp.

"We're going to a funeral, !" Greg loudly protested to his younger sibling's back.

Sherlock Holmes had always tried hard to keep right out of disagreements between the Lestrade brothers. Greg, who also happened to be Sherlock's boss, tended to have an abrasive and interrogatory relationship with this only sibling. Travis reacted by continually baiting his brother into further argument, and such was their circle of life. So, naturally, Sherlock, not wanting to endanger his career, kept his mouth shut wherever possible. This time, however, there was much more than Travis' normal obstinacy and obstreperousness behind the man's decision to wear the disputed garment. It might help catch a killer.

But Patrick stepped in before Sherlock could speak up or World War Three could break out. "I suggested he wear it," he admitted, defending his friend and compatriot, and at the same time saving his host from having to choose to jeopardise his livelihood. He rose from his seat to greet the newcomer with a hearty grin and a hand extended in welcome, which was studiously ignored.

"And who are you?" Greg demanded, turning to face his brother's defender.

"Patrick Jane, at your service," Patrick doffed a pretend top hat, and swept a deep bow. "I met Trav at the airport, and he invited me to stay here for a few days."

"Trav?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you mean Travers?" He pronounced it "trAHverz."

Patrick spun to stare at his young friend, who had stopped dead in the doorway at the sound of the nickname his brother knew nothing about and certainly wouldn't approve of. "Seriously? Your name is Travers?"

Greg winced at the deformed pronunciation of the family name by an upstart American.

"Legally," Travis affirmed sneeringly. "I changed it when I went to America. Far too hoighty-toighty for the hoi polloi I mingle with, eh, Greg?"

Greg's back stiffened. "It's not hoighty-toighty, it's English," he corrected.

"Same diff," Travis derided. "Come on, or else we are going to be late, and that'd be even worse than wearing a green jacket to a funeral." He abruptly walked out the door, glad to finally be able to use his brother's overwhelming need for punctuality to get his own way. Greg had no choice but to follow.

Sherlock swallowed nervously. I had no idea I was calling my boss' brother by the wrong name! Hopefully, it won't impact negatively on my career, he fretted. Greg Lestrade wouldn't be that petty, would he? Then he suddenly thought of what else he knew about the young Englishman-turned-American, and his anxiety increased hundredfold.

Patrick snuggled back down onto the couch that had quickly become his preferred seat of choice in his new home. Patrick Jane, life-long flibbertigibbet, had been converted to the joys of relaxing. His chosen piece of furniture was comfy and broken-in, perfect for whittling his inferences into workable hypotheses worthy of presenting to his audience.

"Greg doesn't know, does he?" he inquired, shooting meaningful look in Sherlock's direction.

"Know what?" Sherlock was not about to inadvertently betray a confidence.

"Trav's real reason for going to America," Patrick smoothly answered.

"Which is?" Sherlock shot back.

"The one thing that would truly scandalise a traditionally aristocratic dyed-in-the-wool monarchist like Greg." Patrick closed his eyes as if the conversation bored him.

"No, Greg doesn't know," Sherlock finally admitted, and made sure to warn the foreigner: "and it's not up to us to tell him."

"Of course not!" Patrick snorted, "But its 2005, for heaven's sake! That man should get with the programme!"

"Oh, yeah, and who's going to convince him?" Sherlock asked, glancing at Patrick. They locked eyes and duelled for supremacy in a staring contest. Finally, Patrick, knowing he was about to lose, suggested a game of "Paper, Scissors, Rock."  
"What?" Sherlock asked confusedly.  
Patrick settled back for a long session teaching his host one of his favourite childhood past times. But being a speedy study, Sherlock quickly became adept at the game. Which was just as well since they had a job to do.


	2. The House

Sherlock was still unsure about this civilian companion of Travis Lestrade's. Sure, he had impressed last night, not only concluding that Travis was a left-handed, employed cop from New York travelling under duress to London and a lover of cricket and baseball equally, but also correctly stating his pal's two biggest secrets, secrets so personal he hadn't even divulged them to his brother, and definitely wouldn't let slip to a complete stranger. Sherlock decided to monitor his new charge closely at today's visit to the possible murder site. As a civilian, Patrick could not be privy to the details of the case, other than what he had heard through the media and word-of-mouth. What else he deduced from the suspected crime scene would either prove or disprove Travis' sanction of the American. For the sake of Greg's relationship with his team, Sherlock fervently prayed for the former.

Hopping out of the car, Chauffeur Patrick quickly ran over the facts of the case as they had been presented in last night's papers and television news, and then corrected in conversations he had overheard between Travis and Sherlock. Husband and wife duo Kildare and Bride Kilduff, both in their mid-forties, had suffered simultaneous fatal heart attacks. Recent Irish immigrants, a blacksmith and a midwife respectively, the couple died mid-meal at the breakfast table in their thatched cottage in Central London, and their deaths were instantaneous. Post-mortem examinations revealed both victims had no underlying medical conditions that would explain the deaths, so for now they were being treated as suspicious.

Passing the front garden of the cottage, Patrick stopped. He wheeled about, bent down, and picked up some dirt in his hands. He rubbed it in his fingers, and sniffed it. He slowly stood up and whistled softly.  
"If you've got something to say, spit it out," Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, rubbing his hands together impatiently. "You have proved yourself deserving of my attention. You are unofficially on the case."  
Patrick beamed, then became sombre as he remembered where he was. "You need to ask the cop inside some specific questions." He outlined his suspicions and which questions needed to be put to the guarding officer, whom Sherlock peremptorily summonsed outside.  
"You have been guarding the house since the bodies were taken away?" The detective's tone was brusque.

"We have been guarding the property every second of the day since the bodies were released to the coroner 5 days ago," the young man assented.

"How many of you?" Sherlock became more insistent in his line of questioning. "We need to know if anybody has disturbed the garden in that time, and we need the answer now."

The policeman's face blanched. "Well . . .um . . . I can . . . "

"Spit it out!" Sherlock barked.

The policeman swallowed. "I was only told to make sure people stayed out of the house – nobody said anything about the rest of the property!" he protested. "The lady next door wanted to make the gardens nice for the family. I stayed with her, of course, and my partner was in the house. I didn't see the harm in it. I'm –"

Sherlock held up a hand to stop him reiterating his apology. "What was taken?"

"I've no idea!" the policeman mumbled, chagrined.

Stepping forward, Patrick put his hand on the young man's arm. "It's okay," He soothed. "I'm Patrick, Detective Holmes' chauffeur. Just take a deep breath . . . that's good . . . and another one . . . great . . . now, what did the plant that she took away look like?"

The young man's eyes went wide as he remembered. "Purple with little bell shaped flowers."

"That's great," Patrick praised. "And when I remove my hand you will think we are here for a tour of the crime scene." He squeezed the man's bicep, and then let go.

"Right!" the man saluted them jovially. "Detective Holmes, you are here to scour the crime scene for clues? Knock yourselves out." He waved them into the kitchen.

When they entered the kitchen, Patrick stopped short. "What did you say the victims' names were?"  
Sherlock answered, "Kildare and Bride Kilduff."  
PJ chuckled heartily. However, upon receiving a particularly annoyed glare from Sherlock, he silenced his mirth and expounded on his observations.

"There are no less than five St. Brigit's Crosses in the thatched roof of this cottage." He gestured upward. "The Cross of St. Brigit is a traditional religious icon employed to protect against fire, especially useful in a home with a thatched roof, like this. Also, they died on February 1, did they not?" Sherlock grunted an acquiescent reply. "Traditionally the first day of spring in Ireland, February 1 is Imbolc, or St. Brigit's Day. St. Brigit is also known as St. Bride, and hails from the Irish town of Kildare. It is a time-honoured ritual for the followers of St. Brigit to honour her by eating jam on this day. Extremely devout followers of St. Brigit may confirm their adulation by also consuming butter at the same time, as it is written in legend that after St. Brigit gave her mother's butter stores away to the poor, those same stores were immediately replenished by God. Bride, Kildare, crosses, jam, and butter." He pointed to each item as he listed it. "I think it highly likely we are looking for a woman who has a grudge against Ireland, St. Brigit, or God, Himself. And the first place I'd look would be next door."

Sherlock was astonished, but managed to ask the obvious, "Why?"

"The plant our young friend described sounds suspiciously like foxglove." Patrick tried hard not to sound more knowledgeable than his mentor, but he had a funny feeling he failed miserably.

"Ah, yes, _**Digitalis purpurea**_, Common Foxglove. One of the most poisonous of England's common garden plants." Sherlock was glad to get one back on his pupil.

"Precisely! An overdose of digitalis can induce a heart attack." Patrick hesitated before deciding to take the bull by the horns and make a suggestion. "I'll bet that if a pertinent toxicology screen was run on the blood, the butter, and the jam, the blood and at least one other would return positive results."


	3. The Internet

A smothering silence descended over Sherlock's living-room, threatening to asphyxiate all verbal abilities the occupants normally possessed.

Barely a nanosecond before that happened, Travis saved the day. "I think it might have worked," he reported to Patrick and Sherlock. "As you know, we were attending the double funeral of our cousins, Kildare and Bride Kilduff. In a weird, warped way it was actually kind of fun. I got to reconnect with people I haven't met in years and relive memories of an extremely adventuresome childhood," he smiled half-heartedly, torn between joy and grief.

"Weird and warped is exactly right," berated Greg, attempting to bring Travis back to the situation at hand.

"Do you remember the farm in Ireland where we spent that summer when I was about 12?" Travis shot a mischievous glance in Greg's direction. "The owner's son was there today; I don't think he like me much, still. Anyway, apparently the shed is still there." Ignoring Greg's indignant glower, he turned to Patrick and commenced his story. "Greg, Kildare, and I had been sent to stay at this farm with a friend of a friend, I can't even remember their name. Anyway, one day we were locked out of the house, another story entirely, and Greg persuaded us to go exploring. We found this old shed full of junk – furniture and old toys and stuff. It looked like it hadn't been touched in about a century, so we decided to make it into a workout room – you know, a rope swing, some tyres, chin-up bar, that sort of thing. So we spent our holiday clearing it all out, selling what we could, buying materials, assembling and installing our home-made equipment. Turns out the stuff in the shed belonged to their kid at University, and they were keeping it until he got married and reclaimed it. Boy, did we get our butts kicked for that stunt!" he chuckled. "And then there was Kildare's Year 3 school teacher. He reminded me of the time Kildare got us together to spend a Saturday cleaning his yard after a really bad storm. He said he felt the future of the world was secure in us that day. I guess he was right, considering we ended up in three different countries." Travis cleared his throat to dispel the memories from his mind and refocus the conversation to the current topic. "Anyway, there was this one woman there who was one of the few mourners I didn't know, so I decided to ask her a few questions. You know, the normal things you ask strangers at a funeral: "What's your name?" and "How did you know them?" - that sort of stuff. But no matter how hard I tried, she wouldn't come anywhere near me, and avoided answering any of my questions with any verifiable information. And the kicker? She did everything she could to not even look at my jacket. When forced to interact with me, she either stared over my head or at the floor in front of me. I think she warrants further investigation."

"What is her name?" Patrick speedily opened up the Web browser on Sherlock's computer.

"Hold it! We can't arrest someone for not liking green," Greg protested, bewildered at what the two younger men were talking about, and rather irritated at not being at the forefront of the investigation. "And what about that farmer's son? He might still be nursing a grudge against Kildare."

"Who said anything about arrest? I am just suggesting we investigate a person of interest in a possible homicide, just as you would. You investigate yours, I'll investigate mine," Travis mollified the high-ranking cop. "Her name is Noleen O'Shawnessy," he informed Patrick, moving to stand behind him as he slowly typed the name into the search engine and hit 'Enter.' An inordinate number of hits were garnered, and they slumped back, defeated. Suddenly, Patrick sat up and resumed typing. "Bingo!" he crowed. "Noleen O'Shawnessy, unmarried, 31years old, herbalist and naturopath, currently residing next door to guess who?" He looked triumphantly at Sherlock. "Kildare and Bride Kilduff!"

"So she doesn't like green and lives next door to our potential victims. That's nowhere near legal grounds for a warrant." He cast a disparaging glare at his brother as he made his declaration.

"I know that!" Travis took a deep breath to calm himself. Seriously, his brother could be so condescending! "So Patrick and I go visit her." He put up his hands to pre-empt protest. "Unlike you, we aren't employed by the Metropolitan Police Service. We'll just go as friends of Bride and Kildare. We'll see if we can spot anything that warrants official investigation, and report back, as concerned citizens."

Leaving Greg to digest his latest plan, Travis leant over Patrick's shoulder and continued reading. "She was originally from Ireland, and moved in next door only a few months ago."

"Actually, there's more," Sherlock spoke up. There was no way he would knowingly allow his superior's family to be endangered by visiting a suspect without all known pertinent information. He reiterated everything that he and Patrick had discovered and deduced from their time at the Kilduff property. He made sure to fudge a few details (such as Patrick disturbing the garden) and omit names so everything would stand up in court when the perpetrator was brought to justice.

"What do you think of my scatter-brained idea now?" He didn't mean to taunt his brother; they just knew each other too well and it instinctively came out that way.

"I don't like it, Travers. But there's not much I can do to stop you," Greg conceded. "Just be careful." He did _**not**_ want an international incident on his hands.

"It's just a social call," Travis shrugged. "What can go wrong?"

Not long into their 'social call' the next day both Travis and Patrick had cause to rue those words . . .


	4. The Visit

"Miss O'Shawnessy? Hi, I'm Travis, we met this morning at the funeral of my cousins, your next door neighbours, Kildare and Bride Kilduff. Nice to meet you again." Before she had a chance to slam the door in their faces, he hurried on. "I realised when I got home that I had inadvertently picked up your Bible at the church. I'm so sorry." He handed over the Bible he had surreptitiously pocketed after the service.

"Thanks so much!" the pretty young female enthused. "I was worried I'd lost it forever when I rang the chapel and they said it wasn't there. Won't you come in?"

"Miss O'Shawnessy? I'm Trav's friend, Patrick. Is it possible for us to sit in the garden? I'm allergic to cats."

"Absolutely! Come with me, and, please, call me Noleen." She led her guests to her garden oasis.

Patrick and Travis sat themselves on a wooden carved bench between a pair of quince trees whilst Noleen returned to her house with her Bible to fetch some snacks.

"Was that really her Bible? How did you manage to pilfer that without her knowing?" Patrick asked in amazement.

"Oh, it was easy enough." Travis laughed. "She was so intent on ignoring me, it was the easiest thing in the world to uplift it from her bag when her back was turned. Easy-peasy!"

"Do I even want to know?" Patrick groaned light-heartedly.

For the first time since landing at Heathrow Airport, Travis found himself completely relaxed. He had been dreading this trip ever since Greg had contacted him about the deaths of his relatives. Meeting Patrick Jane while waiting to be checked through Customs was a godsend, because even his chosen host was under his brother's thumb. Refreshingly laidback, Patrick made the whole ordeal bearable.

Hidden from view behind nearby plants, Noleen seethed, "I will get revenge on you for stealing my prize possession from me. I will make you pay for your impertinence!" She silently moved toward the house, making sure to keep hidden from the sight of her unwelcome visitors. When she returned, she presented them with a basket of scones and plates of butter and jam.

"No thanks," Patrick and Travis said, practically in the same breath.

"What's the matter? You don't like our traditional British elevenses?" Noleen queried with a hint of steel in her voice.

"We are Americans," Patrick rushed to rationalise their rejection of the proffered food. "Biscuits are more of a savoury thing."

"Biscuits!" Noleen mocked. "They are _**scones**_! And you _**are**_ going to eat them!" She whipped a gun out from under the tea towel the scones were lying on, and trained it directly at Patrick Jane's forehead.

"I don't know exactly who you are," she hissed at Travis. "But you were not alone yesterday. You and that guy you were with were asking a lot of questions at the funeral, far too many for my liking. I thought I'd avoided them all. I don't know how you tracked me down, but there's no way either of you are getting out alive!" Her threat rang out loud and clear in the crisp spring air.

Initially frozen like a statue at being caught completely unaware and unprepared, Travis was snapped out of it by Greg's voice. He heard it so clearly he almost wheeled around to search for him, grateful for the extra support. But he was not there, only his advice to a bullied child Travers many years before: "Keep them talking and they will eventually run out of time to harass you."

"You used quince to make the jam didn't you?" he speculated admiringly, jumping right into the middle of the conversation. There was use trying to convince Noleen that they thought she was innocent or that she should let them go. So why not get as much information out of her as he could while he still could? It would kill two birds with one stone – extract information from a criminal and play for time while they formulated a plan of escape.

"It's a nice tart fruit," their captor enlightened him. "Disguised the taste of the foxglove water perfectly."

"There's just one thing I don't understand," he confessed.

"What's that?" Noleen snapped, keeping the gun trained on a petrified Patrick.

"Why did you have such a strong reaction to my green jacket?" Travis asked.

"Huh! You're not the crack investigator you think you are if you can't figure that one out," Noleen jibed. "Green is the colour of Ireland, stupid!"

Travis literally bit back the snarky remark at leapt to his tongue. "So, what does that mean to you?" he gently prompted.

"They killed my son! Ireland killed my son!" the increasingly disturbed woman raged.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Travis murmured. "Why don't you tell me how that happened?"

"I was a single pregnant teen. Do you know how shameful that was in that society?" The distraught mother ground out angrily. "She inspired me to keep the baby, said she would be my support system forever. But she left the country and then my son died. She brought him into this world, if she hadn't done that, he'd wouldn't have died, would he?"

"Logical," Travis granted. "What about her husband?"

"We were living in Kildare at the time. If we weren't living there, he wouldn't have died!" the clearly traumatised woman screeched.

"Fair enough," Travis conceded. "Grief can be pretty overwhelming at times. You know Patrick and I are not from this country. We are going back to America shortly, so we can't be here to help forever, but I'd really like to get you help to heal yourself. Why don't I get someone down here to talk to you?" He held his breath, waiting for the answer.

"Why? To stop me killing more people like she killed my son?" Now semi-calm, Noleen's words were bitter and hopless.

"Do you really think that is the best way of honouring him?" Travis spoke directly the wounded mother's heart.

Noleen's arms wavered slightly as the words hit their target, but not enough for Patrick to attempt an escape.

"I have a friend who's a great listener, and he won't ask you any questions about this." Travis pressed, circling his hands around the three of them.

"Promise?" Her voice quivered.

"I promise," soothed Travis. "I just need you to put the gun down. My friend won't come into a dangerous situation without the police. You don't want the police, do you?"

"No, I don't." Noleen pointed the gun toward the ground, keeping it ready in case she felt threatened again. She passed Travis her phone. He accepted it gratefully and dialled Sherlock's number.


	5. The Feast

A few days later, Noleen was safely in jail, and it was finally time for Travis and Patrick to leave London. The three friends and Greg assembled at Sherlock's house for one last farewell - scones with butter and jam to celebrate the lives of Bride and Kildare.

All was going well until Travis 'accidentally' let slip a family secret, then absconded to the kitchen with Sherlock.

Patrick almost spat his mouthful of scone across the room. "Gregson? Your real name is Gregson?"

Leaving the table to go get the champagne to toast a job well done, Travis and Sherlock smirked, half wishing they could be flies on the wall for this particular conversation.

Greg lifted his chin in pride. "Yes."

Patrick couldn't help himself. "So why do you give your brother such a hard time for going by the nickname Trav?" he wondered.

"Trav?" Greg spluttered patronisingly. "It's enough that others dare to call him "Travis", I refuse to aid and abet my brother in becoming someone he isn't."

That kind of superior insolence really got Patrick's hackles up. "Who are you to choose who Trav wants to be?" His use of the nickname was deliberate.

Greg swiftly defended his attitude. "I just want to stop him making a fool of himself."

"How's he doing that?" Patrick scoffed. "By wearing green to a funeral? Pfft. No, what you want to do is keep him safe, and the only way you know how to do that is keep him in the world you know."

"What's wrong with that?" Greg argued.

Patrick lifted his hands in acquiescence, quick to try and appease his friend's brother's self-righteousness. "Nothing, but . . . "

Greg angrily interrupted his brother's advocate. "What do you know of how a family works? You've never even had a sibling!"

Patrick paled but pushed ahead, knowing the only way to get his point across was full disclosure. "True, but I have had a parent try for many years to make me be who he wanted me to want me to be. It takes guts to leave the life you've always known in order to discover and become who you want to be, and not just stay in the life you know and exist as the person you are. You are both extremely lucky he is able & willing to attempt to bridge that gap between both worlds and be partly who he is and partly who he wants to be. I suggest you make use of it before you lose him altogether."

"Lose who altogether?" Travis inquired curiously, as he and Sherlock returned.  
"No one," Greg shrugged. "I was just wondering why Patrick took so little credit for his findings."

Patrick shrugged his shoulders. "I have nothing to gain from solving the case, so you guys may as well get the accolades from it."

"You could take the success home, add it to your Curriculum Vitae, and get a job in law enforcement," Travis suggested.

"I'm not in a hurry to return to America," Patrick stated. "I have just fled an abusive father and a doomed relationship."

"Is she unfaithful, dishonest, abusive, or a criminal?" his friend questioned.

"How do you know it's a she?" Patrick deflected.

"Wedding ring. It's 2005, and same-sex marriage is still illegal in California." Travis curled up his lip in disgust. "Ergo, a woman. So, is she?"

"No." Patrick's answer was short and bittersweet. At least his Angela had never crossed any of those lines, thank goodness!

"Never say never, then, right? Where there's life, there's hope, right? And besides, I've got pull in the New York Police Department hierarchy, who have contacts in California. I could definitely get you a job there. You wouldn't even have to relocate."

"Actually, New York sounds awesome," Patrick enthused.

"But – your girlfriend!" Travis protested.

"Travers!" Greg objected.

"No, it's okay," Patrick capitulated, looking directly at Trav. "Some secrets need to be told." Travis shifted uneasily in his seat. Patrick continued, "My relationship is doomed because my wife and daughter were murdered, and the man responsible has never been caught. So, yeah, New York sounds super."

Travis opened his mouth, but Patrick beat him to the punch and looked him straight in the eyes. "No apologies necessary. I hide it well from people I don't want knowing my personal business." Travis gulped, knowing that Patrick was silently urging him to tell Greg his secrets. But he was just not ready! He was comfortable with the intricacies of his relationship with Greg – functional dysfunction, he called it. The alternative – complete abandonment – did not bear thinking about. I left him, not the other way around, he thought. He could almost hear Patrick's answer in his mind - doesn't mean you should hold it against yourself for the rest of your life; set yourself free. He blinked, resolved in his mind to at least seriously consider it. His musings were cut short by an announcement by his brother.

"I'd like to raise a toast to Travers Lestrade, who with a combination of my training and his personality, brought a peaceful end to a hostage situation without loss of life, and was largely responsible for apprehending a murderess. To Travers." Gregson was glad nobody was hurt on his watch.

"To Travis." Sherlock was glad his boss was happy and his career was safe.

"To Trav." Patrick was glad Trav was at least thinking of letting his brother in, and thankful he had a tentative job offer when he returned to America.

"To me." Trav-Travis-Travers Lestrade was just glad. Full stop.


End file.
